


Heavenly Crisp of Springtime

by foxmulder_whereartthou



Category: Original Work
Genre: Cults, Human Sacrifice, POV First Person, Spring, Virgin Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-04 02:04:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21189767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxmulder_whereartthou/pseuds/foxmulder_whereartthou
Summary: woah um??? florence and the machine rlly does shit to people. this is wildIt is time for the sacrifice, and the one to finally take the stage, of all people, is you.





	Heavenly Crisp of Springtime

My ginger curls dance around my throat as they thread wildflowers into my hair, their slender fingers nimble and deft, never pulling or disturbing how carefully set my hair is. Hours upon hours of intricate brushing and styling - it would be a waste to mess it up now. I’m naked, and this room has no walls but merely one long window, so I've long grown used to the feeling of being exposed and vulnerable.

I’ve been carefully decorated; adorned with pictures and prayers and beads and stones from head to toe. Peonies tucked behind my ears and dandelions and daisies threaded around my ankles and my wrists, feathers hanging from my earlobes and a headdress of reindeer antlers, ferns and seashells balanced perfectly atop my head.

I bat my eyelashes; they’ve begun to dress me and the dust, disturbed from the sudden movement, has started to raise from the mossy, overgrown floor panels. Ox-eye daisies and ragged robins and viper’s bugloss snake their way through the damp boards as they slip a feeble, see-through nightgown that barely reaches my knees, as floaty as it is, up and over my shoulders.

Looking at me meaningfully, I realise they’re signalling it’s time. The harp has begun to play and the sun is at its absolute zenith. One of them; a boy, with soft blue eyes and freckles that frolic through the fields of his shoulders, takes my hand and leads me to the doorway, a mahogany giant with flaking paint on the handle. Through the meadows, my shins bleeding from the scrape of the brambles and my feet wet from the spray of the stream, the boy brings me to the Gathering.

When they place me upon the stone, refreshingly cold in the unbridled heat of this pasture, I notice I’m trembling. The boy from before - his eyes dilated as he lays a hand on my thigh - calms me silently with a look that says ‘don’t worry, you will be safe in the arms of the  Huitzilopochtli’.

I stare up into the wide gaze of the wild blue yonder as the people yell in anguish and triumph, a sacrificial knife plunged into my breast and a feeling of purpose and frenzious deliriousness resonating through my bones. 

Blood pours in waves down the gravelly steps and they are finally satisfied.


End file.
